


1983

by pinkgrapefruit



Series: workplace romance [2]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, I know nothing about cars, lesbian mechanic, no sex is had, russian hottie, who may or may not be a spy, with a kink for nice cars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22189621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkgrapefruit/pseuds/pinkgrapefruit
Summary: katya likes breaking fast cars and trixie likes fixing them.[or, anaheim, the third time]
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Series: workplace romance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1464601
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	1983

**Author's Note:**

> look... it's been a while. sorry? mac beta'd the first bit like 4 months ago so have at it <3

“Just because you can afford new cars every few months, doesn’t mean you should,” huffs Trixie, flicking a piece of hair off her face with grease-covered fingers. She wipes the hands-down her dungarees and slides the roller out from under the car, standing up with a heavy sigh. 

Miss Zamolodchikova stands to stare at her for a good twenty seconds, chewing her gum and twisting a piece of perfectly curled hair around her own pristine fingers. She pulls the scandalously patterned mini skirt down, so it covers her ass a barely acceptable amount and then coughs. “Just because I bring you my wrecked cars, doesn’t mean I pay for them.”

“Touche,” Trixie laughs (because, frankly, she wasn’t expecting that answer from the girl who comes in every month or so with oversized sunglasses, short skirts and assumed attitude problem). She’s the kind of girl you expect to have a trust fund that could pay for a couple of tuitions at Harvard and a nice, long holiday in a five-star full-board resort in Bora Bora - she’s also the kind of girl that you expect to never have used any of it, so it gathers interest every year the size of an average mortgage. 

Trixie doesn’t know the woman as anything other than Miss Zamolodchikova, heiress to the Zamolodchikova fortune and Russian steelworks. It’s a shady business at the best of times and with the cold war and all that went with it, she did herself the favour of not googling for a first name and taking all payments under the counter in cash. It’s easier that way.

“Zamo,” she calls out, sliding back under the car, “pass me a wrench.” The other girl snorts with laughter at the idea, popping her gum and scoffing. “You’ve spent enough time in here to know what a wrench is.” The gum pops once more and Trixie gets an 11/32 placed in her hand by uncertain fingers. She pushes her head out so she can give the woman a reassuring smile. “That’ll do.” 

“My name’s Katya,” says the wom- Katya, voice a little disgusted but an undeniable sparkle in the words. Trixie assumes she’s smiling as she says it, her face only able to see the tubes, pipes and plating that make up the underbelly of the car. It’s a nice enough car - a Ford Mustang GT Convertible is an orangy red that clashes horribly with the pink she is clothed in. It’s the kind of car Trixie would love to drive if she had a cool seven thousand to spare. 

“And mine’s Trixie,” she responds as she rolls out, grabbing a screwdriver from the pile on the floor. She holds out her hand to shake before realising her mistake and rubbing it frantically on her dungarees. She tries again and Katya’s hand touches hers in the lightest way possible - avoiding any grease marks. If she wasn’t the one paying her rent, Trixie would press hard just to make an imprint - remember how warm the girl's hands were despite the apparent coldness of her heart. “It’s a nice car.”

“V8 engine, 176 horse-power, the smoothest ride I’ve had in a while.” 

With the speed Trixie rolls out from under the vehicle you’d assume she’s been either electrocuted or the car was irreparable. She hooks her feet up under the very edge of the frame to keep herself stable and looks up at (the unimpressed) Katya with an astonished grin. She’s torn between a snarky comment like ‘she speaks!’ and quizzing her on all the cars she apparently seems to know so she settles with the infinitely malleable and always handy question: “The eighty-three GT, or the sixty-four farlaine?”

It becomes immediately apparent to both of them that despite not knowing how to fix one, Katya’s knowledge of cars can rival Trixie’s and is much more preferable to sitting in a sort of dull silence.

By the end of the Mustang, they’ve covered Katya’s preference and Trixie’s outright love of Ford and by the end of her next Porsche 944, they’ve managed to discuss every possible combination of engine and standard interior features (cementing the mustang as Trixie's all-time favourite).

When Katya brings in a Burnt Orange Pontiac Firebird Trans Am in August of 1983, Trixie almost starts crying. It’s a beautiful car (150 horsepower, three-speed automatic drive) and she’s a little annoyed to see what Katya has done to it in her escapades. 

The underside hangs loose at the back left wheel, the exhaust is so bent you’d be propelled sideways if you put enough effort in and the telltale grumbling of the clutch makes a case for what must have been one hell of a ride. 

“Where the fuck did you take this one?” Trixie asks, pushing down on the bonnet to check the suspension. She sighs as it creaks, the noise bitter, harsh and loud. 

“Santa Monica,” Katya replies, lips easing into a smile, “found this cute little ice cream place, then ran it up to San Jose.” Trixie is not an idiot by any means. She knows more must have happened to bust up the car in the way Katya did. She also knows that you don’t ask a Russian a question that even toes the line of incriminating.

“I like ice-cream,” She chooses instead, smiling to herself as she grabs the tools she thinks she might need. Trixie pauses to watch the way Katya’s eyes are fixed to the glow of the dying sun through the dusty workshop window. She hooks a grease rag into her front pocket and smudges the spot of oil on her nose when she catches her reflection in the wing mirror. Mentally, she adds ‘Clean it’ to her to-do list. She doesn’t know if she’s referring to the car or her face.

“I’ll take you one day. They do the best strawberry milkshakes too.”

Trixie hums at the idea - blowing a hair out of her face as she thinks. “I’d like that Zamo.”

“Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are food! don't be shy <3
> 
> @pink-grapefruit-cafe on tumblr


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